Date: Tue, 21 Mar 2017 18:48:30 +0100 (CET)
From: jade.indigo@tutanota.com
Subject: Dannys Daylight Savings Sunday Morning
Danny's Daylight Savings Sunday Morning
by Jade Indigo ( jade.indigo@tutanota.com )
STORY CODES: B/b, frot, mast
DISCLAIMER: This is fantasy. What's more, it's a fantasy of a fantasy, so
don't get your knickers in a twist about it.
If it's illegal for you to read this kind of story, please don't put
yourself at risk; this story isn't worth going to jail for.
PLEASE: Donate to Nifty at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
ON WITH THE STORY:
Danny wakes with a wicked boner and a full bladder, a combination of
conditions he's all too familiar with these days.
The young teen peeks under the sheets and lifts the waistband of his sleep
shorts, checking for donut glaze on his belly.
He breathes a sigh of relief; no need to change the sheets this morning.
Rolling out of bed, he goes to the door of his bedroom and checks to see if
the hallway is clear of parental eyes, then makes a dash for the bathroom
down the hall, his sleep shorts tented obscenely.
A few moments of something akin to yoga, practiced in front of the toilet,
secures the boy relief for his bladder, but does nothing to relieve his
raging hardon.
Another daring dash down the hallway, and the freckled boy is back in his
room, pondering the challenge of getting dressed this morning to go do the
10 kilometer run that's on his training calendar for today.
The lad considers the relative merits of trying to shoehorn his erection
into the jockstrap his father seems to think he needs for training, versus
simply taming the thing by tugging one out.
The boy locks his bedroom door, because really, the choice was never in
doubt.
A few moments of preparation, his pillow laid out on the bed, and draped
with a few t-shirts from the dirty clothes hamper, the boy drops his sleep
shorts and looks down at his insistent mini-me with a mixture of affection
and confusion.
When did that raging maniac come to be in charge of his life?
Well, this boy, for one, welcomes his new one-eyed overlord.
Straddling his pillow, the boy lays face down on the bed, a little whimper
of pleasure escaping his lips from the pressure of his weight, concentrated
on his boner, the heat and hardness so urgent now.
Humping the pillow, his freckled butt flexing, skinny hips rocking, he
grinds against the t-shirts laid out on the pillow in anticipation of his
desperately needed release.
He knows, from hard-earned experience, that it's possible to overdo it,
with this much pressure and no lube. So his movements are slow, his thrusts
short; but that's all the boy needs.
Danny tries to call into mind a fantasy to accompany his friction, going to
stereotypical straight porn images that his father has subtly encouraged
and tacitly allowed.
It's a faceless, big bosomed woman underneath the boy, in his mind's eye.
Danny perfunctorily performs the scenes he's seen in videos, just tending
his young body's urgent demand.
But then his subconcious takes over and the image suddenly morphs.
It's Kevin! His new friend and sometimes homework helper. The younger boy
comes vividly into focus in the teen's mind's eye, laying under him there
on the bed.
The underaged sixth-grader is cute to the point of adorable, his mop of
black hair splayed out, his sparkling, intelligent eyes flashing.
The smaller boy is bare naked, under him, the two boys frotting clumsily,
urgently.
Kevin's smooth body flexes up against Danny's; freckles versus tan, peach
fuzz versus bare pubes.
A distant, muted, monitoring function of his brain screams out "NO!
Forbidden! Not the gay! What would Dad think?"
But it's already too late.
The idea of rubbing weiners with his friend Kevin sends the boy jolting to
a climax, strong, sharp, and powerful.
It's so sudden, it takes him by surprise. He emits a squeal of pleasure
that's rather higher pitched than would be expected from an almost-fourteen
year old. And rather louder than is discreet in the quiet hours of a Sunday
morning at home.
The boy freezes, hips locked forward, face buried in the mattress,
listening for someone who might respond to his cry.
Undeterred by panic, his young prostate empties its load, nearly eleven
hours worth of thin, boy seed; gushed out in a couple of white-hot jets and
a few dribbles into the hot, tight space between his body and that of his
imaginary playmate.
After half a minute of frozen, frightened silence, hearing no sign of
imminent parental inquisition, Danny remembers to breath again and sags
into the wet spot he's made on top of his pillow, groaning quietly.
After another half a minute, he rolls off to the side, making the sort of
accomodations for his pillow's comfort that he would if it were actually
Kevin there in bed beside him.
He shakes his head and blinks a few times to clear the illusion, it's just
his pillow again, draped in yesterday's dirty laundry.
The metaphorical angel on his shoulder looks at the little puddle on the
pillow and mutters "That was WEIRD!"
The metaphorical demon on his other shoulder looks down at his temporarily
satiated boyhood, drooling the last evidence of his pleasure as it slowly
wilts, and mutters "That was HOTT!"
Danny is confused by what he's just done, conflating the innocent act of
masturbation with the delirious fantasy that informed it. As the glow of
orgasm fades, he's consumed by guilt. He rises to clear the evidence of his
sin.
His pillow was protected by the several layers of t-shirt, so he's able to
put that back at the head of his bed and pull the blankets up. Not making
the bed, just re-arranging it to give the appearance of having been most
recently used for sleeping, rather than pillow fucking.
The remnant of his pleasure that adhered to his belly forms a clear rivulet
that runs down and matts into his fluffy little bush. He uses the already
sullied t-shirts to wipe the last of the stickiness off his flat abs, not
bothering to try to blot the cum out of his pubes, sparse as they are.
Danny rumages through his dresser to find a fresh athletic supporter.
Tugging his foreskin back over his glans, ignoring the damp, dribbly
remnants, he tucks his junk into the jock he doesn't quite actually need to
wear yet, but that makes his father so proud.
Danny finishes dressing, pulling on his oldest, most wash-worn sweatsuit,
and lacing up his newest cross-trainers. He loops a shoestring with a
housekey on it over his neck and tucks it under the hoodie.
Thus, the boy emerges from his house and sets off for the morning's
training run. His appetite whetted by the morning's exertions in his
bedroom, he'll be ravenous by the time he finishes his run and returns home
for breakfast.